


Tender Grasp

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cock Cages, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, Introspection, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, okay maybe a bit more than undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes to be in Harold grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender Grasp

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

"Are you alright, John?" He asks, catching himself whispering for no reason. John's face twists, body arching against the sheets, and Harold can't decide if it's pleasure or pain. Both seem to be welcome when John is in one of his moods, but Harold still balks at administering pain outright.

In a way, John's current predicament is a compromise. There is still discomfort that can turn into outright pain—but the choice is John's. Every step of the way: Harold offers options, and John chooses, and each step brings them closer to—fulfillment. John's hair is sweat matted, silky under Harold's fingers, just long enough to grab on to which means John will go look for a barber soon. John throws his head back in to the touch, bares his throat in careless supplication inviting further caresses.

He leans down fitting his mouth to John's skin, mouthing at the Adam's apple and just below the jaw until John is shaking with the effort to keep from squirming, pinned down by a hand in his hair and one resting lightly on his chest. A swallowed growl lets him know that John isn't yet where they want him to be. Harold scrapes his teeth along a sharp collarbone and reaches down to where cool metal encircles hot flesh. "How does it feel?"

"Like you're holding me." John gasps as Harold's fingertips dance over sensitized skin. Under the suit, John's adornment isn't even visible, it doesn't restrict his movement and isn't much of a hazard even in their particular line of work. They both like the look of it: polished, silver against flushed skin, dull, black leather braided through the loops holding the whole thing together; sturdy and functional. There were far more complicated options, but Harold chose this: nondescript and yet in the right hands so very, very special. "Like the earpiece, only—more." It's another way for John to feel a sense of _belonging,_ of _mattering._ "I'm glad you like it." Harold brushes their mouths together, teases John's lips open licking and nipping until they are both out of breath and John's lips are swollen and bruised looking. "The knowledge that you are wearing it today, proved quite—stimulating."

He'd made himself not think about starting the day watching John shiver under an icy shower until his skin is practically blue and he's small and soft, and the gates of hell slip on effortlessly the fastening behind John's balls closing with an deafening 'snap'. Harold watches silently as John shivers and sways for what seems like an eternity after, skin flushing as his body heats with adrenaline and arousal. Once John opens his eyes again, Harold wraps an arm around his waist guiding the still mute man back into the shower.

This time the water is warm and Harold joins John under the spray grudgingly allowing himself to be assisted with the washing. He used to like it, the intimacy of it, but after his injuries and recovery being washed became associated with sickness and efficiency not affection, pity instead of arousal. Somehow John has managed to break through that particular wall with casual touches and doors conspicuously left open, tempting Harold in to remembering the pleasure in the act.

By the time they are clean, Harold is hard. The process always slower than he would generally like, but at least it's still there. John is hard as well, or as hard as he can get restrained as he is, not that it keeps him from offering himself and Harold shamelessly takes advantage leaning back against John's chest under the watch, John's trapped arousal digging into the small of his back as John's hands, deadly and oh so talented, wring release from him as the warm water drowns out the world.

Now the world has disappeared again somewhere in the shadows of dusk and behind distant windows lighting up like fairy lights. John's knuckles are white where he's holding on to the headboard. Harold knows John is ready to break: all he needs is a little push—"Touch yourself for me, John."

"What?" The prone man startles, the request drawing him out of his lustful haze.

"Touch yourself for me." Harold repeats, sitting up and making himself comfortable against the headboard. He pries John's hands off the wood, kissing each finger and sucking on the knuckles, wetting the skin thoroughly. "Harold—," John protests, panic flaring in his eyes.

"You're beautiful." Harold tells him, guiding John's hands down towards the hard flesh curved against John's belly. "And I like looking at beautiful things."

"Wouldn't you rather touch?" Rolling on to his side, John nuzzles at Harold's crotch hot and damp breath tickling him through his silk boxers. It's distracting enough that Harold almost succumbs to John's mouth, lets himself be distracted from his plans. "I would rather do both. First watch you stroke yourself, watch you hurt for me while you seek your release." John almost chokes while he talks, Harold almost feels sorry to lose the heat of John's mouth. "Your eyes change color when you you're close to release they turn darker, if I'm close enough I can feel all the almost silent noises you make fighting yourself, and the pleasure coming in like the tide." John slumps into his lap, buries his face in Harold's side as if that will help not to hear Harold's words, wrapping his arms around Harold's waist. "I want to see your hands shake, want to catch you when you fall apart coming all over yourself for me."

He pets John's back soothingly, ignoring the muffled, "Fuck, _Harold!_ " From somewhere around his ribs. "Have I ever told you how much I love your hands, John?" He wonders, continuing without waiting for an answer. "Such skillful hands you have, deadly and graceful. Your hands are sensitive too, it took me a while to notice—," Catching John's gun hand in his, Harold brings the twitching limb up to kiss the fingertips paying special attention to the sensitive web of skin between John's thumb and trigger finger. John moans, and some of the tension leaves his body, "but they are: you like touching, feeling different textures, different sensations. I have a hypotheses that I could make you come just by caressing your hands." He licks across John's palm and sinks his teeth lightly in the fleshy mount just below the thumb eliciting a muffled growl and full body shudder.

"Evil." The soldier growls sitting up and making himself comfortable in Harold's lap. He's tempted to point out that this isn't what he requested, but John's hand closes around both of them squeezing hot flesh and cool metal together. It's definitely _not_ what Harold had in mind, but John wraps both of his hands  around them and Harold loses the ability to form sentences for a moment.

John's been hard for so long, he's leaking with only a few strokes . John's hands make a tight tunnel for both of them to thrust in to. The metal drags against Harold's skin, digs in here and there unexpectedly, the smallest ring catching on the glands not unpleasantly. John looks beautiful looming over him, eyes glowing electric blue, muscle gleaming with sweat he is a creature from myth—and he's Harold's body and soul.

As if reading his mind, John's hands tighten around them, thumbs swiping over the glands as John pants harshly straining for release. One blunt nail scraping over overstretched skin where metal digs in to flesh, pushing John closer and closer to the edge, spiraling up to push in to the weeping slit.   "Let me see you come, John." Harold urges, wrapping his hands around the both of them, around John's unsteady hands. He finds himself babbling: encouragement and endearments, telling John everything he'd always thought never to speak of again when he'd said farewell to Grace—and John obeys. He spills over their hands despite the metal biting into his flesh, because _Harold wants him to_ collapsing onto Harold's chest with a stuttering sigh.

Reveling in John's weight on top of him, Harold almost forgets about his own orgasm, his aching penis trapped between their bodies sticky with John's release. He could gather it up, reach down and finish himself off—but embracing John is far more appealing, pulling him close until the soldier's face is pressed against Harold's throat and their legs are tangled together.

It is ages before John moves, licking sweat off Harold's skin, rubbing their cheeks together. They are both going to be covered in razor burn, the prospect of it surprisingly pleasing. John's thigh drags against Harold's arousal, muscles flexing under skin slowly and relentlessly pushing him towards release until he's shuddering, shaking and painting John's chest. "Beautiful." John purrs, peppering Harold's shoulder with awkwardly gentle kisses while Harold tries to force his brain in to a semblance of normality again.             

"Do you want to—take it off?" Harold finally offers, becoming aware of the metal digging into his hip, John's soft penis , bruised and raw looking but undamaged on first sight. John looks down as well, actually thinks about the question then shrugs going back to marking Harold's throat. "Not particularly." He wants to ask, why? But John doesn't act like he'd be willing to explain, he seems so content that Harold loathes even the thought of disturbing him. He should be getting up, cleaning up them and the bed before all the bodily fluids dry in to a particularly disgusting mess—Harold pulls John closer, pushes and prods until John half covers him warm, heavy and radiating quiet pleasure.


End file.
